


---

by Anonymous



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: F/M, post-TDOTL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9393827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A rough WIP of a post-TDOTL fic I may or may not finish one day. Though, with SPX on the horizon - I guess it'll never be complete.





	

          The phone crackled with static as she lifted it to her ear, a soft hissing punctuated only by an occasional _pop_ as the radio waves struggled to sort themselves out. She assumed. For a few years of her life, she had believed phones were magic. Talk in here, your words end up over there. It seemed, at the time, to be the only logical explanation. Certainly her curiosity-borne hypothesis was only further compounded into theory when, upon questioning her father about the nature of the devices, he had given a rambled reply about invisible beams and satellites and perhaps, also, aliens, before trailing off, shrugging, and admitting defeat. “Magic? I suppose they must be, then,” he had said, looking vaguely pleased with himself for coming to a sound conclusion, albeit rather flummoxed by the whole concept. The latter was no surprise, of course. Desmond Edgley had always carried with him a general air of bewilderment wherever he went; it was one of his most charming traits, he insisted.

                Her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk she now gripped, and banished all thoughts of her father from her mind. No, mobile phones were not magic. Far from it. She knew magic; of course she did. Up until five years ago, it was very much a constant in her life. Alongside the persistent world-ending threats (of which she herself was one, but that was another story _entirely_ ) and— she shook her head lightly, pulled the phone from her ear. It continued to crackle, spitting out the occasional burst of static, but it was clearly gaining no traction on the uphill struggle that was cross-continent communication. She thumbed the “end call” button, watched the screen flash briefly red as it registered her input, and sat the small device aside. He hadn’t called her tonight.

                It had become a routine, of sorts. Every third Wednesday of each month, at quarter-to-six, she’d lock all the doors, pull all the curtains, banish the resulting darkness with a few strategically placed candles (archaic, she knew, but comforting) and settle on the sofa to wait. Xena, her lovable, yet decidedly ferocious – and thus, accurately named, she had long since decided – German Shepherd, would join her sometimes, and curl up at her feet, or sprawl across the sofa and leave little room for its one other occupant. The comfort provided by the fuzzy beast was greatly appreciated, but those evenings whereupon Xena was otherwise occupied, chasing her own tail or a dust bunny around the house—well, it only made the loneliness more apparent.

But on these days, these third Wednesdays of each month, she struggled to be truly morose. Impatient, perhaps, but she cherished that feeling, that little buzz of anticipation that skittered along her skin, refused to let her stand still, had her neck craning every few minutes to glance towards the clock. Every single time, without fail, her phone would ring at six o’clock, on the dot, and she’d reach for it – hesitating only briefly – before bringing it to her ear. It was at these times she found herself thankful for her solitude, so as not to suffer the indignity of anyone bearing witness to the cheek-straining grin she failed to subdue whenever the soft buzz of white noise gave way to that smooth Irish brogue. She did not, however, feel that joy-borne ache in her face tonight. He hadn’t called.

As the clock hands lazily ticked their way round – every stuttering movement instilling in her an even deeper worry – she found herself pacing, glancing towards the phone lying, discarded, on her desk. There were a thousand reasons he could be late, she told herself firmly, a thousand and _one_ , even. He had a penchant for troublemaking, and this was simply one of his poorly conceived (yet, at times, utterly genius) plans gone awry. No doubt he was busy apprehending some lowly criminal, his gloved hand crunching into a jaw, snapping cuffs around wrists, scratching his name upon a mandatory report. Or perhaps he was caught up in a meeting—yes, with connections like he had, he was undoubtedly in a position of power, and what did people in positions of power do? They attended meetings. Boring, monotone, document-filled meetings. She smirked at the image of him sitting there, hat pulled low, arms crossed, settled in that unnaturally still way of his—how the other officials would presume he, legend that he was, was listening with rapt attention, absorbing the information being passed around, calculating and analysing. In truth, he’d be meditating – tuned out to the world; his consciousness reflecting the same impassivity, the same unnerving stillness that his physical form exuded. Yes, she was certain that was the case. She almost breathed a sigh of relief, almost let her shoulders relax, almost felt the tension drain from her muscles. Almost.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

6:20pm. He definitely should’ve called by now. He wouldn’t just—he wouldn’t just _forget_. He lived for these days as much as she did, and she knew it. So what was keeping him? Anxious, she paced in the direction of a calendar hanging somewhat haphazardly on the wall, pinned up by an artful combination of tape and sticky tack. She traced the edge of it with her finger, eyes scanning for the date. It was definitely a Wednesday. Definitely one of _those_ Wednesdays. She wouldn’t have gotten it wrong. She practically counted the hours, after all. Her eyes flickered up, caught upon the image of the cartoon horse that loomed over the month of March, and she scowled.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she grumbled, turning swiftly on her heel, and casting her gaze, once more, about the living room. Suddenly, she felt very alone. Xena was elsewhere in the house, snuffling around for objects of interest in the dusty corners, occasionally padding around aimlessly. The soft _click-click_ of claws against the floorboards was distinctive. As she listened to the canine’s noisy wanderings, she absently noted that she’d have to let Danny know she was almost out of dog food. He only brought it with him on an as-needed basis – the bags were heavy, and lasted for a few weeks, and she had no need to stockpile as long as he continued to appear with the same regularity as always. The last thing she needed was to be overwhelmed by kibble.

She stood there for a while, her mind suitably distracted by the regular planning a life so mundane required. All the little lists and routines, post-it notes arranged in a neon burst upon the fridge—even with her limited contact with the outside world, there was an awful lot to jot down for later. She was lost in thought, banishing all other worries in favour of pondering if she had enough milk to see her through the week, and adamantly _not_ considering what certainly could or could not be happening a world away.  She was distracted—so distracted, in fact, that when the rolling beat of “Big Bad Handsome Man” by Imelda May suddenly blasted out across her living room, she near enough jumped out of her skin.

 It took her an absurdly long time to gather her wits and rush forward, hand reaching for the phone on the desk far before she was even an arm’s length away. She risked a glance at the clock even as she pressed “accept call” with shaking fingers and brought the phone to her ear. 6:40pm. Forty minutes late. She realised then – with the lightest of scoffs – that she hadn’t even bothered to check the caller ID. She could look now, glance quick, but she didn’t. She didn’t want the disappointment to be so glaringly obvious in her voice, if she had been wrong. So she waited, held her breath, and listened to the speaker crackle and hiss and prolong her suffering.

And then, a voice—velvety smooth, quiet even in the overwhelming silence of her surroundings, carrying that Irish lilt and the evidence of a smirk that brought her joy and frustration in equal measure— “Valkyrie?”

She let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding, gripped the edge of her desk to ensure she stayed upright, and replied in a voice that, briefly, she feared would clue him into her worry, her desperation, the tears that nipped at her eyes and the sniffle that she did her best to disguise. “Yeah—yeah, Skulduggery, it’s me.”

He took a moment to reply, and her fingers flexed on the scratched and stained wood she held tight like a lifeline. He knew; he knew she had worried, foolishly. He must’ve heard it in her voice. He would’ve already figured it out by now. He was a detective, after all. The world’s best, he’d say, before she’d thump her fist into his arm and bark out a laugh. When he finally spoke – after what felt like an eternity, though it could’ve been no longer than a few seconds – “I do apologise for my tardiness. I am, as always, in high demand. But with skills like mine, I hardly think that’s a surprise to anyone.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. All their years together, and that ego of his – large as it had been when they first met – had only increased in its already overwhelming size, and it never failed to amuse her. _God, she really did miss him_. She shuffled to the sofa, let herself fall onto it gracelessly, swinging her legs up beside her and getting comfortable. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr Pleasant – they’re only trying to compensate for my absence, is all.”

“On the contrary, I’d say things are far more efficient around here. The lack of a certain dark-haired girl wandering around shoving her hands into things and generally making her presence known… Well, I’d say that would speed the whole process up, would it not?”

“Okay, well, first of all, are we referring to a specific incident here? With the hand thing? Because I distinctly remember that one time with th—“

“Ah! What have I always said, my dear Valkyrie? The past is in the past. We can’t let the decisions of who we were affect who we’re going to be. Always facing forward, that’s my motto.”

“You don’t have a motto. You have literally never said those words ever, in your entire life. All four-hundred years of it.”

“Normally, I would, of course, point out the glaring errors in your argument. However, on this single occasion, I reluctantly admit I cannot find any. Therefore, in the interests of preserving my dignity and ensuring your general egotistical nature does not surpass my own, I must respectfully deny your logic, ignore all those words you just said, and move on with my life,” a slight pause, a thoughtful hum, then, “always facing forward, of course.”

“Are you done talking rubbish yet?”

“Absolutely not. It’s been a month since I last indulged, and there’s an awful lot of catching up to do.”

“Speaking of catching up…”

~*~

They talked well into the night, trading insults and playful jibes, reminiscing on days past, and bringing one another up to speed—not that Valkyrie had much to share, mind you. Her days had become monotonous, a simple routine and no more. It was a comforting sort of repetitiveness, one that kept her grounded, but she was well aware of the air of wistfulness that always descended when she gazed out of her window, that suffocating sense of nostalgia that kept her awake at night. She did miss it all, really – the adventure – but in the moments she indulged herself, wherein she considered what it might like to go home again, she felt an unease settle about her. A persistent sort of discomfort that nipped at her heels, chased her away from those thoughts. It wasn’t time yet, not at all. So, as it was, when their conversation tapered off, and her eyelids began to droop, and he spoke those same two words, she knew she had to deny him once more.

“Come home,” he murmured softly. She was almost surprised by the raw emotion of it – a moment ago he had been poking fun at her in that frustratingly charming way of his, chuckling at her flustered reaction, and then it was like a switch flicked, and there was a weariness in his voice, and a nervous hesitancy, and he made no attempt at hiding either of them. But what was it now? The tenth time he’d made this request? Eleventh? She suspected he always knew the answer, but was intent on fooling himself into there being hope. Perhaps, one day, there would be. But for now, even with miles and months between her myriad of sins, she wasn’t so sure she had the strength or resolve to face her family again. Perhaps the wounds would heal and though they would scar, at least then she could look them in the eye once more. But for now? The guilt weighed heavy upon her shoulders, and with the thought of seeing their smiling faces, accepting their love and pride when she deserved none, it threatened to crush her.

And there was, of course, the underlying dread, the tiny little voice of doubt that lingered in her mind, that often only clawed its way to the surface in that hazy half-sleep state between dream and nightmare, that little whisper that prodded at her, feeding her deepest fears with kindling anew. _Skulduggery thinks you’re a monster._ Even now, as she sat, silent on the phone, hesitating as though she might be considering his request, it gnawed at her subconscious. _He was wicked, he was cruel, he killed without a care in the world. When he was Vile. But you— you killed your own baby sister. You. Not Darquesse. You’re evil. evilevilevil. He knows it. He knows it as well as you. You think he really wants you back? Murderer._ She sucked in a breath, even as the tears welled up. It would take a long time before she could face him, too. So she clenched her fist, exhaled, and the voice she spoke with was remarkably light, almost cheerful. “You know I can’t, Skulduggery. Not for a while, at least. You’ll be alright without me – and, besides, I’m only a phone call away, right?” She hoped he didn’t detect the underlying strain, the forced levity. Or rather, she hoped he didn’t mention it.

He was quiet – a long time ago, she had been unnerved by the silence that could permeate their phone calls, when both were considering. With anyone else, she’d be able to hear a gentle huff of breath; a reminder that they were still present, still thinking, still listening. With Skulduggery, there was no such reassurance, given that he had no lungs with which to breathe. It was odd. She got used to it. “Right,” he said finally, “yes. Of course. Take care of yourself, Valkyrie. Goodnight.”

She barely choked out a farewell in return, before there was a soft click, and the line went dead, and the static buzz became a backdrop once again, for that niggling, insistent fear. A good night indeed.

~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~ SOME TIME LATER ~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~

“Magic,” she said, a smile dancing upon her lips as readily as the light danced upon – no, _within_ – her palm. She wiggled her fingers, and just as Danny leaned forward, eyebrows raised, to get a closer look, the glow faded and she withdrew her hand. Noting the visible disappointment on his face, her smile slid into an all-too-easy smirk. He didn’t look affronted, merely impressed – almost in awe, in fact. She tried to shove her ego back within the confines of whatever makeshift mental cage she’d compressed it into, but once that beast was free, there was no going back, and the smirk split, forming into a wicked grin.

Danny must’ve noticed, because suddenly he shrugged, shoved his hands within his pockets, and glanced away. “Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty cool I _guess_.  I’ve seen better. There was this one guy on America’s Got Talent – you know that show, yeah? Yeah, so anyway, he did this card trick where he like, showed the audience—“ He couldn’t handle it anymore, he burst out laughing, and the incredulity on her face swiftly shifted to embarrassment. “I’m just messing with you,” he noted, once he’d suitably calmed down. “It’s been a weird few days.”

She noted the change in his demeanour, that quiet guardedness, even despite the warmth in his eyes as he regarded her. Immediately, she felt guilty for having dragged him into all of this. It wasn’t his world. It could be exciting, full of adventure, yeah— but it was dangerous, it was terrifying, and once you’d had a taste of it, it never really left you.  But he promised her he’d pursue other dreams, that he’d turn his back on it all. On magic. Skulduggery had already gotten in contact with the American Sanctuary – they’d send Sensitives the next morning, they promised. If Danny had had any desire to pursue her, to follow in her footsteps, or to delve into the world she was from, they would surely quash it. And… there was that twinge of guilt again. Damn.

By the time she pulled herself from her thoughts, he was already moving towards the rear of the house, to leave through the back and avoid Skulduggery altogether. She watched him silently as he paused, and turned, one hand on the doorframe. “Thank you, Steph— Valkyrie. For everything. Really.” He smiled at her, with genuine warmth, and she returned it. As he spun on his heel and resumed his short journey, he tipped his head to the side, calling over his shoulder: “Oh, and by the way, you should probably answer the door.” 

She stood there for a long moment, processing his words, then suddenly yelped, “oh, shit!” and bounded for the front door, throwing it wide open.


End file.
